by Emerson, Ru
Vuhlem’s hands were bunched into tight fists, his face an unhealthy deep red under the thick, straight line of heavy brows. Beyond the low balcony, two companies of city guard and half his household guard sat already mounted or stood, reins in hand, their faces one and all carefully without expression. “They dare attack your Duke, your city, your very way of life!” the Duke thundered; his voice echoed from the surrounding walls. “You will not permit them to succeed! You will kill whatever commons you can among that army, find the commanders, and bring them personally to me!” Silence; he drew a harsh, loud breath, spat, and after a moment went on, his voice low and all the more frightening for its sudden lack of fury. “You will do these things,” he said softly. “I have told you already what atrocity they committed on our borders, executing every man of those who were fool enough to surrender. You will fight, every one of you; you will give them no least square of ground but they must earn it in blood. If I hear otherwise regarding any man of you, you will answer to me—and I will be less gentle with you, and with your sons, than will the southern Dukes!” Dead, chill silence. “Go!” Vuhlem roared suddenly. Men already mounted turned their horses and spurred for the road; the remainder moved toward the gates to wait.
Vuhlem watched the first men through the gate and out of sight. “Fools and idiots; I am served by cowards, fools, and idiots,” he snarled, and drove both hands through his beard. He’d seen the smoke from the city ports, and knew what it meant: Most of his ships sunk at anchor; what few ships he still possessed were well out to sea, on their way back in to cut off the foreign vessels. What army he had left—it would be enough, even without the promised new shipment of guns. It had been a mistake to send so many of them south on the Emperor’s fete—most of those had wound up in Sikkreni and Bezanti hands.
Well, he knew the guns weren’t accurate enough to be of much practical use in a pitched fight; if the southerners had brought the captured weapons, they’d have little ammunition and less training. He dismissed the guns; what few he still had were in trained hands, inside the city’s north walls, where men afoot and in hiding waited. Men unfamiliar with Holmaddi streets, uncertain where the next shot would come from—there’d be slaughter.
Afronsan’s force had overall superiority of numbers but no real experience in fighting. His own green men were gone; the southerners had bested them and would be overconfident when they came against his personal guard, and his city guard.
Who would have thought that sniveling paper-pusher could move so quickly? Vuhlem snagged his hair between gloved hands. “It was not what I planned!”
Afronsan had no proper training in weapons, tactics, and strategy, though: no actual experience in fighting. Some of those invaders probably fought the Lasanachi at Dro Pent years before, but that was one long skirmish, not a full-scale assault. Somehow, despite all that, the man had set up a tight, three-point invasion and carried it off: so far, quite well. But such a plan needed to be crafted in advance, and it would only continue to work when the enemy responded according to the plan. Afronsan’s army moved according to a pattern set in stone; any move which was not one they expected might well turn their neat program into chaos. “We’ll defeat them. Every last father’s son of them,” he concluded grimly.
He gazed after the departing company with narrowed eyes; once outside the gates, they’d slowed to a walk, so as not to tire the horses too soon: good. But these were his most seasoned fighters, the men who had made the rounds of the villages, who had recently helped him take Dro Pent. They had the most to lose, as the Duke’s willing allies, if Afronsan won here. They knew that and would fight for their own miserable hides, if not for his. He turned on his heel, strode across his throne room and through the narrow, curtained entry behind his high-backed chair; it led to the servants’ spiraling inner stair, which he took by twos. He scarcely slowed at their entry to his own chambers, hesitated, then went on to the uppermost level, hard against the long-slated roof.
But when he emerged on the enclosed, very faintly blue-lit landing before the massive wooden door, he stopped short. Stroked his beard thoughtfully. No, best not to interfere with the Triad just now; It would claim he had broken the seal They enforced on the chamber and thereby Its concentration, and use that for excuse if It—still They! he reminded himself angrily—could not Shape against the invaders. The words had sounded like so many poor excuses to him, the previous morning: the need to find one particular weak vessel among the foreigners, utilize that one to create a pool of Hell-Light—Preparing the ground with yet another excuse if they fail me, that they could not find the right person. He should have given them a choice among his own people. Too late now; he turned away, found the main staircase by feel, and went back down to his apartments. From here, he could watch the oncoming southern force, observe the fighting, and to an extent direct his own companies, if need be. Four men outside my door, should I need them to carry messages to the fighters. Better, if none at all were needed because everything went smoothly, as it had in Dro Pent. He stalked across the room, shoved aside the heavy drape, and settled one hip on the deep sill.
Beyond the city, all along the low ridge, were banners and horsemen. He unhooked the long, thin magnifying glass from his belt, moving the adjusting band back and forth until he could see clearly: Zelharri’s banner next to that of Cornekka; Sikkre’s beyond them. Two others, one wrapped around the pole by wind, the other plastered wetly against its pole, both unreadable, but he knew them anyway: My enemies. Several poles without banners, only a different brightly colored sphere atop each. No readily discernible purpose to those; possibly hastily made company markers.
It didn’t matter whose those men were, of course: they were all against him. Including—yes, his eyes and the foreign glass hadn’t lied to him; there were caravaners out there as well. “Learned nothing from your last encounter with my Triad, did you?” Vuhlem laughed mirthlessly, lowered the glass and set it on the sill by his knee, settled his shoulders against cool stone, and prepared for a long wait.
Aletto gripped Dahven’s hand. “Any difficulties so far?”
There was no strength to the man’s fingers, Dahven realized with a shock, and he was bone thin. But Aletto’s smile was genuine; Dahven managed one in return. “None. I’m wet to the bone and unused to the climate. How’ve you stayed dry?”
“Cheated, of course; I’ve ridden with the caravaners the whole way—until now.”
He had no business on a horse, Dahven thought. No business away from the Fort, even if he had good cause to be here.
“Thukar, you look good.” Gyrdan came up to grip Dahven’s shoulder. “We took down a small company just beyond the hills out there; a large camp, but only a few men—probably meant to hit our flank once we engaged the palace. No trouble to speak of; experienced fighters but not enough of them to stop us. No word from our ships?”
“Nothing we’ve heard; we’ve only just arrived, though.”
Someone in the fore with the banners turned to call back, “Men coming from the Duke’s palace!”
“How many?” Gyrdan shouted.
“Fifty or so!”
“Not enough,” Gyrdan mumbled. “Where’s the rest of his old guard?”
Dahven shrugged. “Maybe at the docks, the West army just came from there.” He gestured toward the smoke, now very thick and so flattened out by the wet morning air the harbor itself couldn’t be seen.
Gyrdan stood in his stirrups, looked that direction. “You saw West out there? I can’t—”
“City’s between us.”
“Oh. No—the old guard will be waiting between us and the palace. Vuhlem’s no fool when it comes to tactics, they taught his generation. Some probably posted just inside the city, ready to come behind us when we engage the men we can see.”
Dahven chewed his lip. “I don’t want any of us getting drawn into the city; it’s even worse than the maps suggested. All those narrow streets—”
“I don’t want that, either; that�
�s why the West army is where it is, remember? You and Duke Aletto will certainly go nowhere near those walls, remember you have obligations the rest of us don’t.” Gyrdan stood once more, this time to look out over the city. Dahven’s wordless shout of surprise brought him around. Just west of Vuhlem’s palace, a stand of trees exploded, sending fragments high.
“Cannon,” Vey said flatly. He held up a hand, thumb counting against fingers. “Four—five—” A muted roar washed over the ridge. Men cheered; Gyrdan spurred his horse forward, waved a long arm for attention.
“English cannon, that’s our signal!” he shouted.
Dahven rode up next to him, stood in his stirrups, and slammed the soaked hat flat on his head. “Well? They know we’re here, don’t they? Let’s take them now!” A cheer greeted this: Dahven dropped into the saddle, kneed his horse back around, and rode down the hill. Gyrdan swore furiously as the Thukar passed him, turned his horse to follow. Aletto drew down a tight rein on his own mount and remained where he was.
Vuhlem lifted his glass once more as the southerners poured off the ridge, shifted his gaze. The company that had come from the docks was ranged across the road, at least half of them facing the city; his first string of riders had drawn to a halt a short distance away; most of his archers were already off their horses, firing into the packed enemy company. Several men fell. He smiled, jumped as another explosion rattled windows and shook everything. Annoying. His own ships should be just coming into sight, though. Another cluster of trees just beyond the palace blew into splinters; some of his first string were having problems with their horses. Vuhlem swore, set the glass down, and jumped to his feet: The first section of army from the ridge had swept around the east wall; his men were surrounded.
“What are they doing?” There was sporadic fighting; not as much as he’d expected, or ordered. Even with the badly tipped odds and the surprise factor, something was very wrong out there. He strode to the door, slammed it open, and shouted, “Messenger!” One of the boys leaped to his feet. “To the courtyard, second company to move out at once and keep in mind my warnings!”
“Honor.” The boy’s voice wabbled; he bowed low, turned, and sprinted down the stairs. Vuhlem pulled the door closed with a slam that rattled the windows. Another cannonball hit somewhere beyond the palace; thick smoke rose above the wall, flattened, and was blown south, momentarily smothering his view. He stared out the window, fists hard on his hips. When he could see once more, the second company, a full hundred of his best-trained standard guard, was already partway up the road. More movement up by the city; one of the guard companies had broken out—or gone around—the invaders and were attacking its west flank furiously; he didn’t need the glass to make out the occasional flash of fire and smoke that marked the guns. “That’s right,” Vuhlem muttered. “Keep them occupied.” He smiled unpleasantly, resumed his seat on the window ledge, and picked up his glass once more.
15
An hour, maybe less: fine, misty rain was falling once more, making footing hazardous; the sky so dark it was impossible to track the sun. The southern army pushed slowly, steadily up the road toward the sea; the English cannon sliced off the tip of a tower roof but otherwise did little damage, save to create havoc. At one point, Dahven thought, he could just make out some kind of action where the English ship sat, more smoke at sea than there had been. But the land was too flat, too many men all around him to be certain of anything. And it was dangerous to take his eyes or his attention away from his immediate surroundings. Battle’s confusing—and exhausting. He wondered how Aletto was holding up, waiting on that ridge, then forgot about him as yet another small company of swordsmen slammed into their flank. He’d killed or disabled three men, he could recall; he had a long slice in one sleeve and a hole, left by a Holmaddi arrow, in his saddle. Vey’d run the archer through; he didn’t know what had happened to the swordsman.
They’d heard some of the foreign guns—behind them, mostly—back in the city. Some kind of shot had ripped a hole in the Cornekkan banner early on.
He wiped rain out of his eyes with a soggy glove. Vuhlem’s palace was a little closer, but so were Holmaddi soldiers—coming at them from both sides. Dahven sighed, brought up his sword as one of the riders evaded the outer guard and headed straight for him. He ducked to avoid a slashing overhand blow, thrust hard. Blood everywhere, on his sword, soaking his glove; the man slid silently from his horse, vanished underfoot. Ugh. Dahven fought his suddenly skittish mount.
“You’re all right?” Vey came up beside him once again; he had to shout to be heard. Dahven nodded; the horse danced sideways, suddenly stood still.
“Untouched.”
“Good! Stay that way!” Vey’s eyes moved constantly, watching the melee all around them. Dahven stood in his stirrups. Half a dozen of Vuhlem’s men anywhere nearby, but every one of them was engaged some distance from him. He settled in the saddle once more, drew a deep breath. Wait, he reminded himself. Catch your breath, give your sword arm a little rest. Grelt’s orders, back in Sikkre—good sense, too. He shifted the sword to his left hand, flattened the fingers of his right against his leg; they ached, didn’t want to unclutch. This was nothing like a one-on-one duel.
All at once, sounds of fighting ceased. Near silence, broken by the occasional flat crack of gunfire from the city, men shouting back that way; another shot from the English. Smoke rose from the direction of the Duke’s private docks. Gyrdan shouted, “We’re clear!” The red poles carried at the head of the line dipped once, sharply. The company moved as a pack, slowly at first, picking up speed as the horses spaced out, and two of the Cornekkan border companies split off to either side of the road. “Banners high!” Gyrdan bellowed. “Let the English see who we are!” Dahven was near enough to his horse’s heels to see the man, but for all the noise around him, he’d barely been able to make out the words.
Wild pandemonium at the palace gates; horses milling and men shouting; the cannon and sounds of fighting much louder here, echoing from thick stone walls. Vuhlem’s guard held its own just inside the grounds, but not for long against a force three times its size and equally determined. The blue poles dipped twice; Dahven looked around, found his own pole-bearers. “Lead group’s in the palace; signal we got that.” Yellow poles dipped twice. “And look, there’s Gyrdan, on the steps.” Blue dipped once more. “Our signal—come on!” He slid from his horse, drew his second sword, and started forward. Vey swore, dropped to the ground, and edged in front of him. A full dozen men right behind then, and half a dozen more surged forward to surround him.
Unnecessary, Dahven thought impatiently; some of the Holmaddi had apparently run for the dungeons, but most left standing had surrendered. He could hear someone a short distance away: “He’s lost and he lied about the border armies. Why should we kill ourselves for a lost cause?” Someone else snarling at him to shut up.
The distant boom and high-pitched scree of a cannonball; sudden silence in the courtyard as men cringed and looked warily all around themselves, then up. An explosion rocked one of the high towers, sending small, sharp fragments of roofing slate pattering all around them. The tower itself leaned precariously, and as they watched, the topmost part of it toppled toward the water.
The whole palace shook; the window where he’d been sitting only moments earlier shattered. Vuhlem threw up an arm to protect his eyes, then stared at falling rubble. He shook himself finally, sent his eyes unwillingly back toward the city. No fighting out there at all, just now—in fact, no movement of any kind. High on the ridge, horsemen and wagons still waited, though a fresh double line of riders was on its way down the main road from the city, the Zelharri colors in their midst. The southerners still maintained an immobile line of horsemen just beyond the city walls, spread three deep across the road. Dead or wounded men littered the road this side of them, and the ground on either side. He couldn’t see the gates or the courtyard from here, but through the shattered window he could hear men’s voices: too many men,
all shouting at once, a babble of sound with no discernible words in it. No sound of fighting there, either.
“They’ve taken the road, blocked the city, sunk my ships—invaded my courtyard.” Sudden dread left his mouth dry. The upper ranges of this tower were lying in the narrow west courtyard. “My Triad,” he whispered.
The servant’s door wouldn’t open; jammed somehow. The main one—he had to tug hard to get it to move, and it scraped against the floor. He edged out—the messengers were nowhere in sight. Bolted, no doubt. They’ll pay for that, I’ll have the hide from them. His inner circle of household guards still waited down the hall, blocking the main staircase, just as he’d ordered—no matter what happened elsewhere. The long, narrow flight of stairs up was clear; perhaps the damage wasn’t as bad as he feared. He took them as quickly as he dared.
“You know where to go, all of you!” Gyrdan shouted. “Move, and watch your backs!” Companies of ten or twenty scattered; to the stables, down into the cellars, through various doors along the inner wall. Dahven skirted four dead Holmaddi, took the low steps two at a time; Gyrdan nodded sharply as the twenty-five men he’d hand-picked assembled on the outer steps. “Second floor, Duke’s apartments,” he said tersely. “Out there!” he shouted. “More of you, at least twenty, to turn out the main floor and pay special heed to the throne room! All of you”—he turned back to his immediate group—“we go straight up, ignore distractions, engage no one if it can be helped. Find Vuhlem!” He raised his voice as more men came up the steps. “Remember that! Clear the main floor, then move elsewhere as quickly as you can. We take Vuhlem now!” He stopped short, stared over their heads. Dahven’s neck prickled; he turned. Aletto had just ridden through the gate; he came up to the foot of the steps, pulled the long bo from its strap, and dismounted stiffly.
“I am going with you, Gyrdan,” he said flatly. Somewhat to Dahven’s surprise, Gyrdan merely nodded, turned, and strode into the building.
